Serpien’s eyes rolled back. He crumpled.
Serpien stood up, his forked tongue flickering. “You think you’ve won?” Serpien’s eyes rolled back
She stood, wiped her shin on his silk shirt, and walked out through the casino’s kitchen, past stunned cooks holding ladles like weapons. “You think you’ve won
The handler paused. “That’s your third extraction this month. Your modeling agent is furious.” Your modeling agent is furious
It was the habit of never, ever finishing a story the way anyone expected.
Kandy entered the VIP lounge barefoot. Her dress was a liquid gold slip, slit to the hip. The bouncers saw a model. Serpien saw a ghost. He was a pale, scaled thing—actual reptile grafts on his neck—sitting in a velvet chair, surrounded by six Muay Thai killers.
“Then tell him,” she said, exhaling smoke into the Bangkok night, “that the Hi Kix Kick Ass Model Habit doesn’t take notes. She takes necks.”